


The Worst Day of the Year

by hermitknut



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Fluff, M/M, Merthur - Freeform, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 22:11:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7124365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hermitknut/pseuds/hermitknut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur has never really enjoyed his birthdays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Worst Day of the Year

Over the years, Arthur has always had to suffer through one particular so-called ‘perk’ of a Prince’s life – birthday parties.

Normally, parties and feasts are manageable, if boring affairs, a mixture of good food, strong wine, Morgana in a pretty dress charming half the knights and watching the sycophants listen avidly to his father’s oft-repeated tales of the evils of sorcery. Arthur normally just knocked back a few goblets of wine and sank into plans for training the next day, practicing parries and thrusts in his mind and wondering where the hell Merlin had got to when he was supposed to be refilling Arthur’s goblet. However, his birthday was _always_ worse. So very much worse.

For one thing, he was the centre of attention, so there was no slipping off into daydreaming to help while away the time. For another, at a regular party he could always have a ready excuse for not being brilliantly cheerful – training was tiring, he had been very busy, there had been bad news from the border, he hadn’t slept well – but on his birthday there was no escaping it. He had to make an effort. He had to be enjoying himself. He had to shake hands, and greet people, and be polite, and seem delighted with every little thing. By the end of each party, even as a child he felt that his face was going to fall off from all the smiling. He would finally be given the nod from his father that meant enough guests had left or returned to their beds, and he would excuse himself and head straight to his chambers. Once inside and safely out of earshot, he would tear off his uncomfortable, formal tunic and the rest of the ridiculous outfit and pull something more comfortable on before throwing himself onto his bed in relief.

He never really expected these birthdays to improve. He knew they would only get worse when he became king, for that was something that would be celebrated across the whole of the kingdom. At least now his father usually made the speeches on his behalf.

But on his first birthday after having come of age, there was something a little different about it.

There were no signs, on the days leading up to it or the day itself, that it would be any better than any other birthday. He spent the days before scowling at everyone and snapped at Merlin so much that his normally talkative manservant actually went quiet and stopped bothering him. This did not make Arthur feel any better.

The party itself was dreadful. Oh, everyone had a wonderful time, and Arthur doubted that anyone noticed his real mood behind the well-practised smile and courteous, rehearsed words of thanks. The food was good, the wine was better, but Arthur resisted the temptation to drink too much as he knew he had to be respectful and that drinking (though Arthur was no lightweight) was likely to make him voice all those frustrations that he should not have as a Prince. He spent the entire evening fighting to keep a scowl off his face; and on the odd occasion that he caught Merlin’s eye he thought he saw a much more knowing look than he felt anyone should be allowed to have.

When it was finally time to leave for his chambers, he did so, slamming the door as he got in. He had got as far as pulling off his new, silk tunic when he saw that there was something on the table that hadn’t been there before.

A small, clumsily made cake.

Arthur walked towards it, curious, tossing the tunic over the back of the chair. It wasn’t as grand or fancy as anything from the kitchens at the previous feast, and most oddly it had a small piece of cork in the middle of it, holding a little candle. A candle on a cake. Arthur stared at it.

There was a soft knock on the door. Before Arthur had a chance to answer it, the door swung open a little way, and Merlin entered, looking wary.

“Did you do this?” Arthur asked quietly, puzzled, gesturing to the cake. Merlin nodded, and gave the lopsided half-smile that Arthur found so fascinating.

“It’s what my mother used to do for me, on my birthday,” he said. “She said that blowing out the candle granted you a wish, gave you luck.” He shrugged, the half-smile still on his face, his eyes unreadable. “I know it’s silly, but I thought it might at least make you laugh.”

Arthur felt himself smile a little, involuntarily. He turned to look at the cake again instead of Merlin. As he was examining it, he heard Merlin take a few steps closer and something rustled. Arthur looked up.

Merlin was holding a small package, wrapped in a large leaf that had been folded around it. He handed it to Arthur. Arthur, without looking at Merlin, took it, and slowly opened it out. Inside was a small stone about the size of the top of Arthur’s thumb. It was grey and smooth, and a sharp white line ran down the centre of it. It was an odd thing – part of it had clearly been chipped at some point, because part of the surface was sharply cut away in one corner, revealing deep blues and grey-purples and sea-greens. He turned it over in his hand a few times, feeling its shape, its weight.

“I found it in the river a while ago, while you were out hunting.”

Arthur remembered turning around on his horse to see Merlin further behind him than he should have been, one sleeve wet to the elbow. He had told him he was a clumsy idiot for falling off his horse again, and then carried on. Looking back now, he remembered the oddly triumphant expression in Merlin’s eyes. Merlin’s eyes…

Lost in thought, Arthur wasn’t expecting the soft touch of Merlin’s hand to his arm. He didn’t jump, though. It was just Merlin.

“You know, cakes are meant to be eaten, you know,” came Merlin’s voice, soft and close to his ear. Arthur often forgot that Merlin was the same height as him. He nodded, and sat down, taking the knife from beside the plate. Merlin half-leant, half-sat on the side of the table, almost cat-like in the half-light of the candles, one foot against Arthur’s chair. Arthur cut the cake, and they shared it, Arthur calming more and more with every bite, the candle in its cork holder placed on the table, still lit. When they were finished, they both looked at the candle. Neither of them said anything as Arthur picked it up, brought it towards him and blew it out. In the near-darkness, Merlin spoke quietly.

“What did you wish for?”

Arthur didn’t answer with words. He turned and kissed Merlin gently, feeling the other man’s lips curve into a soft smile. A few minutes later, Arthur decided that birthdays weren’t so bad, really.


End file.
